The Blue Horde
by thatisanicecoat
Summary: It is 1271AD. Osul Khan is a daughter of The Blue Horde, descendant of the vicious Mongolian king: Genghis Khan. In Osul's fifteenth winter, her tribe is brutally attacked by a Western army. Osul is captured, mistaken as a boy, and taken to be sold in Constantinople. Once there, Osul meets Edward, Prince of Wales, eminent King of England. In Jerusalem, she meets his daughter.
1. I-III

**The Blue Horde**

 _Fame has no trustier guardian than fear._

 _—_ Joseph Kessel

"It seemed as if nothing could prevent the Mongols from overrunning Syria and Egypt. But the Egyptian Mamlukes rallied to inflict a crushing defeat of the Mongols at Ain Jalout in Palestine in 1260. In that it saved the heartlands of the Muslim world from being overwhelmed, this was one of the decisive battles in the history of the world. The Mongol threat was far greater than that of the Christian crusaders, but it was also short-lived. Eastern and western christians both nursed hopes that the Mongols could be converted to Christianity. Instead, in 1295, the Mongol khan announced that he had become a Muslim." — "A History of the Middle East", Peter Mansfield.

I.

BALKAN STEPPES

1270AD

"I am Osul Khan, daughter of the Blue Horde. By my grandfather Orda Khan, his father Jochi Khan and his grandfather, most feared above all, Genghis Khan— tremble before my sword!"

"That's no sword; it's a stick!"

"Swordplay is not for girls," says Zvi, "and no girl will ever be Khan."

Osul brandishes her stick, "I will be Khan before you, Zvi. And you, Petar, your ears are too big. A crown would never fit around them!"

Petar flattens both ears against his head and grins.

"Don't you ever tire of boasts, Osi?" asks Zvi.

"It's no boast. It's my birthright."

"Oh yeah, and what about Orda's twelve sons before you? What of your uncles and brothers and cousins?"

Osul glares at him. She slashes at a tree branch, sending down a torrent of leaves upon the boys.

"A Khan is chosen by merits beyond blood," she says, defiantly.

"Come off it, Osi. No matter how fast you whip a horse, you will always be a girl," says Zvi, brushing a few wet leaves from his shoulder.

"Yes!" laughs Petar, "Soon you will be fat with child." He pushes his bony hips out and lurches around like a woman burdened.

"I will never marry," says Osul.

"Now, now little Osi. You're pretty enough." Zvi circles her, pulling a lock of her long dark hair. He pinches her arm. "Though you are so skinny. How will the baby feed?"

Osul swats his hand away. "I will never marry."

"I hear Nogai may think differently," says Petar.

"What's that?" she bites.

"Oh, Osul Osul!" swoons Zvi, "what blue eyes she has!"

"What shining dark hair!"

"What long legs!"

"What small breasts— Ayii!"

Both boys double over, holding their shins where Osul's stick had just stung past.

"Boys are fools," says Osul. She turns and launches her stick into the black line of trees.

Since the birth of their people, thousands of years before any whisper of Genghis Khan and his Golden Horde, the Mongols have been nomadic. Their tribes have worn paths through the craggy steppes of Central Asia, to the lush valleys of Mesopotamia, to the sheer-faced cliffs of Hindu Kush, to the Myanmar ports of the Byzantine, and north to forests full of black trees and white snow. Their livestock—cattle, sheep, goats, and prized horses—urge them onward for the earth entire is their pasture.

Before Genghis Khan died, he divided his kingdom into khanates and parceled them out to his sons and grandsons. The eastern wing of the Golden Horde is called White and West, the Blue. Jochi received the West and so it passed to his son and his son after that. It was of a woman, however, that Osul was born.

From a very early age, Osul encountered the limitations of her sex. Her mother was captured by her father during a raid in the far West. She was a thin, quiet woman who enjoyed sewing immensely. While pregnant, she stitched together one beautiful wedding dress— for she had a special intuition that her child would be a girl. She lived one day to look on her daughter, at her large eyes open in blue wonder, at the crown of dusky hair. That night, she died. Osul was left alone to be raised by men.

The Horde is a communal people, however, and Osul had plenty of chances to learn the womanly trades by any aunt or cousin. Yet, young Osul always bent her sewing needles and frayed basket reeds and burnt crusts on open fires. So, she began to tuck her hair beneath a scarf, don black caftans and oxhide pants, to carry a knife in her belt.

Lech, the second eldest of her brothers, taught her to ride a brown mare, named Tarpan. They would go galloping for leagues down the Danube coast; Osul would bend close to Tarpan's neck, reveled by wind and the power of her beast. Toqta, only a year older, loved to spar with Osul by the livery. Matched in height and temperament, they traded strikes and parries and laughter, always laughter. And Perun, dear eldest brother, always stealing anthologies in every city they passed through— he taught Osul to read maps, to speak with eloquence, to read the histories of their people and of others. Osul especially liked the histories of the Holy Roman Empire. Alexander the Great held a special place among the pantheon of her heroes.

Osul stoops down near the river's edge. She studies the black current, able to see a few silver fish dart into the quick. Quite by accident, she catches her reflection floating atop the water. She stares long and hard at an image she can't quite reconcile. What are these hips and these breasts? Do they belong to me? And if they do, how shall I bear them and keep climbing trees and besting Toqta and riding Tarpan? Soon, a man shall come for me. And I shall die, like mother, or like a slave held captive over a pot of soup.

Osul gathers her hair from the nape of her neck and holds it from view. Her hair appears shorn in its reflection; yes, shorn, but still framing the face of a girl. She supposes she is pretty, but in a harsher way than the other girls. Through her childhood, she had been taunted for the foreign color of her eyes, for growing tall and thin, for towering over the girls. Only recently, has Osul been attracting the attention of boys. Nogai in particular, a cousin much older and second in line to be Khan of the Blue Horde. He never talked to her, though, only stared at her over an evening fire, or as she hauled water across the polestar. His eyes gave Osul a funny feeling: it is like hearing a wolf throw its howl, unable to tell if the beast is near or far.

She slashes the water with her hand, splintering her image. Then, Osul calmly removes the knife from her belt, makes a knot of her hair and hacks it off. She throws the tresses into the Danube and watches them float swiftly away.

"I need a sword," says Osul. Perhaps they will respect me then. And I can go on being a woman with a man's purpose.

A loud noise wrests her from her thoughts. It seems to have come from the valley camp. Osul listens: Horses. Metal clanging. Women's voices shrill above the men's. Are they under attack?

Before Osul can stand, that wolfish feeling steals into her gut. Someone grabs her from behind and slides a large calloused palm over her mouth. The skin smells like a tincture of sweat and sap. Osul looks up at her captor. It is a tall man encased in rusted chainmail, white cape resting on his shoulders, bearing a crimson cross. He yells something out in a foreign tongue and three other soldiers emerge from the trees.

She remembers a marking like the one on that cape. It was a seal on one of Perun's scrolls. It belonged to the Khan of a great western nation, a kingdom called England.

II.

The soldier leads Osul by her newly shorn hair. She yells and spits and slaps the man, but he pays her no mind, the blows seemingly struck on a body forged from iron. They and the three others make their way through tall pines and narrow rills and finally break the fault line into the valley. Horses and cattle swarm the camp, loosed from their pens. Sheep and goats wander bleating and stamping. Bodies litter the ground, slumped in awkward positions, bleeding from deep gashes to stomachs and heads. Osul refuses to recognize the bodies by name, for she feels bile rising hot in her throat. One man lays sprawled on an overturned oxcart, his head severed at his feet.

Red, red, everywhere is red— the blood, the entrails, the cross flying high on that barbarian flag. Osul looks wildly around for her brothers, but cannot locate any of them. Women run screaming from their yurts, cut and slashed by the enemy's sword. One of the foreign soldiers drags a woman by her hair and throws her to the ground. He rips the fabric of her tunic, exposing her breasts. Osul squeezes her eyes shut, still clutched tightly under her captor's arm.

Roughly, she is flung to the ground. She opens her eyes and finds herself kneeling in a line of children. To her left sits Petar, staring wild-eyed at the scene before them.

"Petar! Petar!" she cries, throwing her arms around the boy.

Yet, Petar does not move, does not blink. He stares like a ghost, like one already departed from these horrors.

"Where are my brothers?!" Osul demands, shaking him by the shoulders.

"Everyone is dead," says Petar.

"Where is Lech and Toqta and Perun! Where is my father!"

Petar finally looks at her, his face smeared in dirt and blood, stained with tears. "Lech and Perun are dead."

"No!" cries Osul, doubling over. "No! No!" She must find them; she must find Toqta to warn him. She tries to get to her feet, but is pushed roughly down by her captor. He flings his foreign words at her, fanged words as if struck by a serpent. She tries to rise again, but is kicked heavily in the gut. She sputters, coughing wildly, trying to suck air back into her lungs. Again, he lands another blow, this time on the side of her head. Trees, mud and sky whirl madly in her vision; hooves thunder past. Osul has one thought before blackness takes her: Toqta had been with Nogai's hunting party; they left at first light this morning. Her brother may still be alive.

III.

When Osul wakes, she finds herself lying in the back of an armory wagon. She can hear men speaking, laughing, horses clopping. The cart jangles along, causing her head to throb painfully. Straining her ear, she tries and fails to discern any of the speech for the tongue is foreign. Osul sucks in a sharp breath: memory surges, bringing a metallic taste— though it could be blood on her tongue.

"Osul," says a small voice.

She looks around and finds Petar with his arms drawn around his knees.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"I don't know," says Petar, blinking tears away, "You can see through there." He points to a rip in the cover.

Osul fingers the tear and peers through. She can see only the rump of a horse and oblique darkness. "Which direction did the sun set?"

Petar considers this, then points behind them.

"So, we are heading East," she decides, "But, that makes no sense. These warriors are from the West."

Shrugging, Petar picks at the stitching of his caftan.

"Perhaps they mean to sell us on the slave market in Constantinople," says Osul, "that must be it."

"Why did you cut your hair?" Petar asks, strangely.

She had quite forgotten about her shorn locks. It seemed a lifetime ago, kneeling by the Danube, tossing her dark hair to the water. She couldn't imagine that peace ever having existed.

"Where is Zvi?" she asks.

Petar hangs his head. She will not make him say it. The boy begins to shake— not for the cold, for it is quite stuffy in the wagon. Osul slides over to her friend and slings an arm over his shoulders.

"This is terrible. Oh, it is so terrible!" cries Petar.

Osul shushes him. "Don't worry. I will protect you."

Petar looks up at her with those dumb, shining dark eyes; after a moment, however, the spark dies. "You're just a girl," he says.

Suddenly, their wagon lurches to a stop. A few calls echo down the line. Why have they stopped? Perhaps Toqta and the hunting party are staging an ambush. Perhaps they will be rescued!

Osul moves to the peephole once more. A soldier walks unhurriedly by, mere inches from her eye. Then, the cover is flung open and they are met by the man who had captured Osul.

"Come about now," says the soldier.

When the two young prisoners make no move or signs of understanding, the soldier steps onto the cart and pulls Petar by the foot. Petar lets loose a piercing yell, grabbing onto Osul's sleeves.

"Please, please! Don't let them take me!" Petar screams, "Osul Khan!"

Osul lunges at the soldier, sinking her teeth into his arm. He yelps and flings her out of the wagon like a savage animal. Osul lands hard on the ground, her vision swimming. She lumbers to her feet and launches herself onto the soldier's expansive back. Staggering, he reaches blindly to pull the girl off, but she has wrapped her legs—strong from riding—around his hips. She constricts her arms about his neck until he is gagging. He shakes her viciously, but Petar jumps at him and claws at his face. Both Osul and the soldier fall to the ground.

"Kill him!" shouts Petar, "Kill him!"

The man is choking in her arms, flailing wildly. She can feel the breath draining, blood pumping furiously, heart hammering through his iron chest. She is killing him. And Osul does not feel fear or remorse but power: terrible, awesome power.

And then she is being ripped from her prey. Two other soldiers bare down on Osul, one already restraining Petar. Osul is crushed beneath the two men, her face pushed deeply into the mud so that it fills her mouth and her nostrils. She cannot breathe. _I will drown in mud_ , she thinks. Her body settles; she ceases struggling.

"He cannot draw breath, William!"

"He nearly killed the Earl of Surrey!"

"William, I beg you! He's just a boy."

"Aye, Henry." The soldier known as William releases Osul, chuckling as she turns her face and spits out a raw mixture of dirt and horse shit. "That should learn him well."

"Sit up," says Henry, stooping down onto his haunches.

Spitting and coughing, Osul slowly pushes herself from the ground. She wipes her mouth across her sleeve, tongue black with filth, and stares murderously at this Henry.

"My dear, if you had succeeded in killing John de Warenne, I'd be serving your head to my King."

Osul keeps her stare hard, blindly running a hand along her belt for a familiar hilt.

"Searching for your blade, perchance?" winks Henry, "Of course, you can't understand a word I say, can you?"

The Earl of Surrey begins to stir. He groans and cups the tender flesh of his bruised neck.

"You do have spirit. I'll give you that," smiles Henry, "Come, you and your friend must be very hungry." He stands and extends a hand down to Osul.

Slapping his hand away, Osul cautiously stands and reaches out for Petar. Henry waves at the arresting soldier and Petar slips from his grasp.

"What do they want, Osul?" asks Petar.

"I don't know. But, that one," she nods in Henry's direction, "is in charge. Avoid crossing him and we shall live another day."

Henry regards the two boys curiously. The shorter one already bares signs of approaching manhood, sporting a deeper voice and a dusting of black fuzz above his upper lip. He is a skinny boy, but still broad in shoulder. He would make a good laborer.

But, the other. Even streaked with dirt, his face sits like a winter moon, pale and savage and beautiful. He stands a few hands taller than his friend, but he is more slender— his strange grace almost womanly. Henry can tell the young man had recently lost his cheeks, for he holds his strong jaw and high cheekbones like a bird of prey. And those eyes. Definitely not Mongol for their shape and color, yet like no shade Henry had ever seen before. That pale, naked stare pierces one utterly. Perhaps, thinks Henry of Almain, we have captured a changeling.

"Your language is very beautiful," says Henry, though he hears the words like devilish incantations. If one is ever to be cursed, it will be in this slavic dialect of the Mongolians.

Osul breaks her conversation with Petar and walks fiercely toward Henry.

"Listen to me, Henray of England," begins Osul.

He looks surprised to hear two recognizable words: "Yes, that is my name, Henry of—"

Osul cuts him off, caring little if he understands: "I do not care what Khan you serve. I do not care about your England. To me, you are djinns who fly into swine and make them run off cliffs. You slaughtered my tribe. You killed Zvi. You killed Lech. You killed Perun."

Osul's voice breaks on each name. She advances toe-to-toe with the soldier, her breath hot on his face: "I would kill a thousand of your Earl Surreys! A thousand of your Henries and Williams! I detest your Khan and his House!" She spits at the Englishman's boots. "I am Osul Khan of the Blue Horde, daughter of Genghis Khan. Soon, you will fear me as your ancestors feared mine."


	2. IV

IV.

" _T_ _senkher_ _Ord_ ," says Henry, turning the exotic words on his tongue. Leaning back heavily in his chair, he kicks off two mud-slung boots. He props both weary feet up on an armory chest and, consequentially, creases a map of the Holy Lands thad had been unfurled atop it. " _Tsenkher_ _…_ _Ord_ …" he intones, then, "Osul Khan."

Henry of Almain is not a young man, though he is not quite old. True, this morning he had stiffly risen from field bedding, fished a looking glass from his saddle bag and pulled a few silver strands from an otherwise black beard. True, Henry had lost sight of foolish youthful aspirations and grown quite serious about his present status. Born the eldest son of an Earl, royalty traveled Henry's veins, though he was far from the throne. It was natural that Henry ally himself with a close cousin of higher birth. Which explains his current state: sitting barefoot in vast badlands before the Byzantine City of God, picking dried Mongol horse shit from his tunic.

Leaning forward, Henry studies their position on the map more closely: There, scrawled on the beaten edge beyond Constantinople, are the words: _ALTAN ORD_. Finally, it clicks in Henry's mind— that is former Golden Horde territory, captured by Genghis Khan himself hundreds of years ago.

"So, _altan_ means 'golden'," Henry says aloud to himself, "and then I suppose _ord_ is cognate for 'horde'." But, that still doesn't give me _tsenkher_ …. Straightening his posture, Henry collects the facts: That camp they raided a half-moon ago was undoubtedly Mongol, a splintered tribe of the Golden Horde, ruled by some half-wit kinsman. Yet, they were many. At least a thousand strong in one area. His scouts had even reported other Mongol camps a few leagues off. Are Mongolian tribes again uniting as they did before? And if they are, what does this mean for his cousin's crusade on Jerusalem and Palestine? Would their route home be severed by the enraged degenerates of Genghis Khan?

Henry raps his knuckles over Jerusalem, the sound hollow, thinly regretting his decision to raid that camp. Ah, and what of his blue-eyed changeling? That feminine boy full of a man's rage. Thrice he had slipped his guards—seasoned knights mind you— and tried running off into hostile Turkic land. The first time he was caught, William de Valence bound him with livery straps and made him bray like a horse. The second time, John de Warenne lashed him with a leather crop until his pale skin was striped with color. The third time, Henry of Almain chained him to a wagon wheel and whipped his companion until he bled. The boy never slipped his guards again.

"Bloody hermaphroditic child demon of the steppes," mutters Henry.

It is no matter, anyway. Tomorrow, they would reach Constantinople. He would promptly send out a man to sell the boys at flesh markets of the Grand Bazaar. His legion would join Edward's and together, they would exact Divine retribution on the Mamluks and their blaspheming Prophet. Then, at long last, they would return victorious to England and crown Edward High King.

Grinning, Henry reaches for a carafe of wine and sloppily pours himself a serving. Red wine distends beneath his goblet, staining a good portion of Palestine. "My cup runneth over," he chuckles.

—-

Hagia Sophia's grand dome governs the zenith of this city's seven hills, her golden cross brilliant in the setting sun. Beyond, turquoise Myanmar waters stretch toward the Orient. From the south, African winds bring rare heavy rains. From the north, arctic winds carry down from the Land of Czars. At the confluence of two continents, small frigates sail into the mouth of the Bosphorus and disappear behind rugged coastline.

Constantinople, City at the center of the world. Conquered by Rome. A Christian stronghold at the enemy gates of Islam.

Henry's army parades through the city's famed Sultanahmet district. Knights and lesser conscripts march in proud arrowhead formation, the excitement of arrival a balm for their fatigue. Osul and Petar trudge beneath the shadow of their guard, bone-tired and terrified by an uncertain destiny. Still mystified by their purpose here, Osul keeps close to Petar's side and concentrates on remembering their route through this labyrinthine city.

All around them, native men, women and children whoop and cheer. Seeking better vantage, some climb atop taut burlap roofs of merchant caravans. Others lean over high balustrades. Seeming scores of people swarm from the Grand Bazaar, one man's turbaned head piled high with patterned scarfs, another laden with large sacks of saffron. Still others wind through the English ranks, trying to sell small painted cards with depictions of Saint Paul, the Virgin Mother, the Crucifixion. _Rosaries!_ _Beautiful rosaries!_

After a grueling uphill march over ankle-breaking cobblestones, Henry's army reaches the outer walls of Byzantium's Ecumenical Patriarch. Passing through high-spired gates, Henry's army collectively looks up—up— at towering Hagia Sophia, her face Heavenly in sunlight. Awed by its sheer magnitude, Osul realizes she has never seen a true engineering wonder; even Kalemegdon fortress of Beograd would sit dwarfed at this basilica's feet. Osul is mesmerized by Hagia Sophia's beauty: the perfect masonry of multi-elevated gables and archways, the radiant colors of colossal leaded glass windows, and that dome throwing golden light back to God. She now knows why a man might, in repose, sigh and refer to his city as 'she'. For woman is man's only natural measure of beauty.

A call files down rank and Henry's army draws to a halt before two massive cedar doors. Dust drifts up in holy silence. There is a brief pause before a herald steps forward: "My Lord, Henry of Almain, son of Richard, first Earl of Cornwall, humbly awaits the invitation of his Highness, Edward, Prince of Wales."

With a loud _creak!_ , one cedar door opens wide enough for a man to slip through. It is another herald: "My Lord Edward, Prince of Wales, imminent King of Eng—" But, the herald is interrupted by a loud din: Cedar doors scrape wide across hollow brick. In the shadowed threshold is another legion of iron knights, their crossed pennons starkly white and red. Then, their stiff attention is broken and the front rank parts to reveal an exceedingly tall man, sporting a mane of golden ringlets. Quite hastily, every other man gathered drops to one knee. He pushes past his herald and strides regally on legs like two beech trees across the courtyard. Once standing before a kneeling Sir Henry and Sir John, the tall man beckons them to their feet. With a deep laugh, he warmly embraces Henry of Almain, then John de Warenne, a smile chiseled from very stern features.

So they know each other, reasons Osul. Is this giant golden-haired man the Khan of England? He must be for two such legions to prostrate themselves before him. This is the man responsible, thinks Osul. A sudden rage gales through her body and brings with it an glacial clarity. Actions are placed before her like stepping stones across the shallows of a river. Void but for naked vengeance, Osul batters into her guard, knocking him off balance, and quickly draws the Falchion blade from its scabbard at his hip.

Proffering the lightweight steel, she swings wildly and slices a wide gash from the soldier's temple to chin. Another advances, but Osul swings hard, hooking the flesh just above his collar, and yanks the pulse from his neck. Blood ribbons across her face like a baptism. Silently, she thanks the heat for causing many soldiers to remove their helmets. Then, the whole army seems to collapse like a net around her. Yet, Osul drops down and propels herself through a forest of legs. Ducking two more soldiers, Osul sees her path clear and breaks a full charge toward the Prince of Wales. Madly, she thrusts forth, the last rays of sunlight knocking like sparks from her blade— but its trajectory is blocked! Henry himself has parried her blow. He quickly disarms her and two others jump to aid in restraint; her arms are wrenched painfully behind, head shoved forward. Osul is forced to lay supine, cheek scraped against warm white brick.

"And who is this young pup?" asks Edward, attempting to mask the strange terror of near assassination by the hand of child.

" _Bi bol Osul Khan!_ _"_ she howls. Her vision is overwhelmed by a pair of dusty boots, so it is at these boots that she directs her rage, " _Kh_ _ö_ _kh Ordyn_ _ni_!"

"My Lord, I beg your pardon," demurs Henry, "We razed a camp of nomads west of the Danube and recovered gold and livestock, beautifully bred Mongolian horses—"

"And child slaves, I take it," supplies Edward. Curiously, he gestures for Sir John to unhand him. Wearily, the boy rises to his knees. To Osul, the shame of this position is getting very old.

"We believe this one to be a Mongol prince. He'd fetch high bids at market and stock your war treasury with Arab gold. A fortuitous thing. Don't you think, my Lord?"

"A prince, you say…." Edward regards this boy on his knees. Though he is beaten, bloodied, half-starved and promised a life of slavery, still he holds his head high, blue eyes lashing Edward with the fury of spring rain.

"Many hardships," says Edward and Osul is astounded to find that she understands him. "Much blood. I offer peace to you."

She realizes that he is speaking in broken Persian, tone clumsy and vowels unstressed.

Osul nods slowly, grateful for Perun's brief flirtation with a Persian merchant's daughter. She remembers her brother pacing their family yurt one night, puffing resolutely at his ivory pipe. He exhaled the word ' _A_ _sheghetam_ ' and it became the night's maddening refrain.

 _Which Rumi couplet are you trying to quote her?_ asked Lech, attempting to train the quiver of suppressed laughter from his voice. But, this only made Osul and Toqta erupt in loud guffaws.

Perun quelled his pace, eyes glassed, smiling a half-moon: _Asheghetam means simply,_ _"_ _I love you_ _"_ _._

 _"_ _S_ _hom_ _â_ _p_ _â_ _rsi sohbat mekunid?_ "

Edward's voice shatters the brief interlude of memory. She should laugh, though: an English prince speaking Persian to a Mongolian girl before a Roman altar. It would be comical if not for the gravity of her present situation.

"Yes, I understand," she replies in her own rudimentary Persian, "Are you Khan of England?"

Surprised, Edward cocks his head. "Ah, Khan! You mean King. Am I King of England?"

Osul nods.

"Soon, my son," says Edward, smiling, "After good war, I am Khan."

This man is not then responsible for the murder of my kin, Osul summates. Henry of Almain was acting under the command of some other far-off demon king.

"Sire," Henry breaks in, "I hate to distract your interest. But, we have many important things to discuss and this boy must be shown at market."

Edward frowns, eyes betraying a very complex thought. "You will not sell him."

Henry's thick brow shoots up before he remembers himself. "Of course, My Lord. What do you wish I do with him?"

"I will welcome him into the House of Plantagenet. He will be a squire in the Royal Army. No doubt he was bred to sit atop a horse. Such long legs."

—

Osul wakes to Petar's screams. The sky dark and their campfire down to coals, she sees only a shadow stretched over Petar like a great wolf.

"Let go of me!" Petar shouts, thumping his fists against the attacker.

Osul pounces on the man, but another shadow appears pulls her off. He digs a knee into between her shoulder blades, bearing down with all his weight. Osul screams.

"God knows what my Prince sees in you, heathen!" growls John de Warenne, "Be thankful that you are spared."

Osul struggles wildly beneath Sir John's squire, but he is broad, exhibiting a grown man's strength. Sir John grabs a tuft of Petar's hair and drags him from his blankets.

"Petar!"

"Osul Khan!"

His limited patience departed, John de Warenne binds Petar's hands in rope and pushes him forward.

"Careful with him," says Sir John to the young man sitting atop Osul. Then, he turns and disappears her last and only friend into the night.

"Petar. Oh, Petar," she cries, "I will find you."

—-

"My Lord!" booms the Earl of Surrey, "The Mongol has killed my squire!"

Sir John stalks the golden aisles of the sultan's library. Below, resident monks recite droning mantras that resonate from the marble floor, ambient in all the basilica's vast empty rooms. At the far end of the library, before a great stained glass window, Edward stands looking out over the Myanmar. He supports his lean frame with an elbow crooked on the wings of an ornate chair.

"Then you had a bad squire," replies Edward.

"I demand the Mongol's blood!"

"Selim!" booms Edward.

A frail eastern man hobbles into view.

"Bring me the young Mongol captive."

Selim nods and quickly turns to do his master's bidding.

Edward turns to Sir John, "Remember, old friend, bad men have good slaves and good men, bad slaves. That's Herodotus."

"My Lord, I do not pretend to know your mind. But, there is already aplenty English blood on that boy's hands. He deserves the axe."

"Yes, I suppose you are right," considers Edward, "but, I have glimpsed a great man's soul in that boy's eyes. That is why you will teach him to serve me, to strive after knighthood, to honor England as his country and Christ Jesus as his God."

Sir John bristles, "I will not permit that devil to lick my horse's hoof, let alone shod it."

"You forget your place," says Edward, "Your prince has given you an order. Land and status generously bestowed by my father, your King, can easily be taken away."

Bowing low, John says, "A thousand apologies, your Highness."

Edward sniffs, taking some pleasure in his groveling. "Arise, John. You are forgiven."

"Thank you, My Lord."

"Perhaps it would help you to know my mind, as you said. In my studies, I have come across a Roman strategy for conquering… problematic tribes. In the year of our Lord, 415, a child of the Hun was taken as hostage by the Imperial Court of Western Rome. He was taken here, to Constantinople. After five years, the boy was released to his people, a peace treaty secured. The idea behind this was to educate a heathen child in Roman ways— he would learn the language, customs, and military— then return to govern his people with Roman sympathies. A quiet conquering.

You see, Sir John, the Mongols have been a very serious threat by virtue of Genghis Khan— a brilliant leader, I must admit. Since his Reign of Terror, the Horde has dissipated but certainly not disappeared. They are divided into two main tribes, Blue of the West and White of the East. Do you follow?"

Sir John nods, though in no mood to be lectured.

"The White Horde is currently led by Berke Khan. We had hoped the Mongols would turn to the Christian faith. Ten years ago, however, Berke Khan converted to Islam. Can you imagine how devastating it would be to our Cause if the Mongols were to unite, not only with their own splintered tribes, but with the Islamic plight?"

Sir John swears an oath. Yet, he catches that sly smile on Edward's face. After so many years at the Prince's side, John knows that smile to mean a scheme in the works.

"All is not lost, brother," prefaces Edward,"Recall the battle of Ain Jalout in 1260? The Mamluks rallied and ousted the Mongols from Palestine. You see, the Mongols and armies of Christendom have a common enemy: Baibars, King of the Mamluks!"

"Forgive me, Lord, does this mean you wish to make overtures to the White Horde?"

Edward nods, "To the White and the Blue. Let us ally them for our own purpose. And this is where our young Mongol hostage becomes important. He will be our envoy. He will be our future, our way to defeat Baibars and take back the Holy Lands."

"I am not sure I understand, my Lord," says John, "you mentioned Rome and their hostage— but, the Huns utterly destroyed Rome at Constantinople."

"Ah, yes," Edward replies, a bit sheepish, "that is because the hostage they took happened to be none other than Attila. I am hoping for better luck with ours."

At that, Selim reappears, bearing the irate subject of their digression.

"My Lord," says Selim, bowing. Having heard of this boy's violent ways, Selim cautiously ushers him toward his master.

"Come," says Edward in his thick Persian.

Osul paces terrified in Selim's wake, sure that she had been summoned for execution. Somehow, she manages to keep herself from shaking. _Never let your enemy see your fear_ , said her father. She did not mean to kill Sir John's squire. When his Master left with Petar, he got rough with Osul and, upon ripping her caftan, discovered her body to be that of a girl's. Spurned and enraged by this, he sought to impart a lasting reminder of her sex. Before he could lift her hem, however, Osul managed to reach his knife. She plunged it deep into his throat to the hilt. Selim found her chained to a pillar in the courtyard, painted in russet stains, three soldiers at her guard. Selim quickly acquired a smock and led her to the marble pools of Hagia Sophia's well. He scrubbed her face, neck, arms and hands until her skin was pink.

"An English tunic suits you," says Edward, "as does a bath."

Osul sneers, interpreting his words as harsh even though she cannot understand them.

"A squire shall kneel before his Prince," says Edward, placing two hands on Osul's shoulders and forcing her down. "You have much to atone for: First, you attack Sir John. Then, you threaten my life and wound my soldiers. Now, I hear you've killed Sir John's squire. Tell me, why should I spare your life?"

Osul remains silent.

Edward boxes her ear, but Osul does not cry out.

"Blood!" he swears in Persian.

"Blood," she echoes. She resigns to bare any humiliation, for she knows she must keep alive for Petar's sake. But, she will refuse to make apologies. They spurned her to it. They murdered her kin, so she will murder theirs.

"Honor Sir John as squire," commands the prince, "and someday you may be a Knight in turn."

Pain streaks through Osul's crystalline eyes as understanding comes.

"Or, death," says Edward.

Faced with this ultimatum, Osul grits her teeth and demurs before the Englishmen.

"Good," says Edward in English, "By my rightful honor as Edward, Prince of Wales, I swear you to Sir John de Warenne, Earl of Surrey. Ah, but do you have a name, Mongol prince?"

She does not offer her name: Osul Khan will not serve a foreign master who slaughtered her kinsmen.

"No matter," sighs Edward, "I will give you a new name. What shall we call him, Sir John?"

"How about Bruner the Black," John offers, laughing.

"Ah, yes. Knight to mythic King Arthur himself. He who wore the ill-fitting coat of his murdered father. Tell me, what is the word for 'black' in your language?"

Osul's eyes dart between the two men.

"I remember now," says Edward, "the word is 'khar'. A fitting name. From now on, you will be known as Khar of Sultanahmet, for this is the district where you are reborn an Englishman."

John laughs heartily, threads of spittle flying into his russet beard.

"Say it with me," says Edward, placing his hand beneath Osul's chin. How smooth his skin, thinks Edward, like a river stone or white birch. "I am Prince Edward of Wales."

"Prince Edward of Wales," repeats Osul, her accent dressing his name in peregrine tones.

"You," he says, shaking her chin, "are Khar of Sultanahmet."

"Khar of Sultanahmet." She tastes the words and nearly retches.

It will be many years before Osul ever hears her true name again.


	3. V

V.

After a few days' ride, Edward and his army arrive in Tunis only to find King Louis IX of France dead and the small Christian stronghold fallen to Sultan Baibars and his Mamluk barbarians. Unable to aid the Crusade in Tunis, Edward marches them further to Tripoli in effort to assist the Prince of Antioch. With Charles of Anjou's help, and after a series of bloody skirmishes, Edward manages to secure that small remnant of Jerusalem. Finally, in May of 1271, Edward and Charles march tirelessly onward to Acre, a strategic port city on the northern coast of Israel. Acre had been embroiled in war for countless years, controlled mostly by Islamic forces and challenged by Frankish and English alike in a series of Crusades. Having arrived, Edward vows to end Baibar's siege on Acre once and for all.

—-

Khar had gotten used to her new name, it being bellowed endlessly by John de Warenne from one end of camp to the other. She had also grown accustomed to serving Sir John as squire. Despite his being hot-tempered and hateful, John was a fastidious knight. Khar recognized that she had much to learn. Among her duties were to carry her Knight's armor, shield and sword while on the march; repair damaged equipment; present her Knight's pennon; care for his horse and prepare it for battle; and, among her least favorite, to dress Sir John in armor.

Beside the strange ligaments of English dress, rusty iron hinges and complicated livery for warhorses, what most surprised Khar was when she found out that the English mistook her for a boy. It did not take long to realize, for she was treated no differently from the other squires: cuffed on the head, fed fatty meat and bread rinds, expected to tote heavy armor for leagues at a time. And, among the squires and pages, there was not a single girl. In a strange way, Khar could not believe her luck. With the English, she could ride horses, swing swords, wear tunics and pants. Though the English stole her life and those of her family, they also satisfied her most ardent wish: not to be a man, but to learn a man's ways and become powerful.

As the days passed, she felt Osul Khan, daughter of the Blue Horde, die to Khar of Sultanahmet, prospective knight in the army of Prince Edward of Wales. At night, however, the cries of Petar came shattering through her dreams. She would wake in a cold sweat, blood thinning in her veins. Always, she would be haunted by the ghosts of her past.

—

Khar stands on a hill just outside Acre's battlements. Below, a legion of Mamluk warriors swarm the seaside. She watches them organize into haphazard formation. Clearly, the enemy had been surprised by Edward and Charles' arrival.

Above, the checkered yellows and blues of Sir John's pennon whips in the wind. Khar holds fast to the flagpole, feeling it shake in her hands. Queued on either side of her are the other squires, displaying the colors of their own Masters: the blue and yellow stripe of Henry of Almain; the ornate white stripe and red bird of William de Valence; the golden fleur-de-lis of Charles de Anjou. Poised on horseback before the frontline is Edward himself, the red cross of England emblazoned on the sky.

"Prepare the archers!" he yells.

The back line shifts to attention. In unison, arrows are placed flush against the pristine tautness of gut string. Somewhere, a trumpet heralds— piercing notes carry down into the valley, reaching the enemy, and disappear somewhere off the Mediterranean coast.

"Fire!" bellows Edward.

At once, the sky is streaked with black arrows. Even Khar feels a sharp pull in her stomach, the hot compulsion of war.

"Charge!"

Khar takes off wildly down the hill, screaming until her throat and lungs sing with pain.

—

As it happened, the battle for Acre only lasted a mere half hour before Baibar's general called a retreat. When the last Mamluk warriors disappear over the hills, the English army erupts into a victorious clamor. Khar too rejoices with the undulating vowels of the Mongol war cry. Along the battlements are scattered about a battalion's worth of bodies— some English, some French, but most Mamluk. She and the other squires are tasked with recovering the bodies of slain kinsmen to give them a proper burial. So, Khar drops her pennon and goes about this gruesome honor.

—-

That afternoon, Edward and his nobleman march into Montfort Castle and take seats at a grand banquet. Kneeling by Sir John's thigh, Khar refills his goblet with sweet Mediterranean wine. From the vestibule behind the royal table, Edward and Charles emerge. The nobleman stand in honor. Edward raises his hands high in praise, a wide smile on his face.

"Sons of England and France!" he begins, "Our victory was easy this day, aided by the very Hand of God!"

Those seated roar with approval.

"However, all our campaigns will not be won with such little bloodshed," comes the sobering phrase, "We must remain steadfast and strong and by the Son of God, Christ Jesus, we will bring the one true religion back to these Holy Lands!"

Another cheer breaks lose.

"Now, without further ado, I would like to introduce two people I've held in my heart since leaving English shores," Edward pauses and looks back toward the vestibule, "Bow before Lady Eleanor of Castille, my wife and eminent Queen of England. Bow before my daughter, Princess Joanna of Acre!"

A stately woman walks gracefully into view, hair the color of wheat twisted up into a silver diadem. When Eleanor joins her husband's side, a small girl moves from her mother's shadow. As Khar looks, a great swell of blood sweeps her veins; the flower of danger blooms; ale turns to ice in her stomach.

"Joanna," she whispers.

The Princess is young, no more than twelve years, but her bearing is both poised and humbled. Her blonde hair she wears plaited and bound by pearl ribbon. Her dress is lace and silk. She folds her small white hands atop the table runner and gazes through dancing green eyes at her father's banquet.

"Long live the Prince of Wales!" someone shouts.

"Long live the King!" everyone echoes.

Then, the hall is seized by talk and clanging plates and loud guffaws. From the corner, a man strums at a lyre, wearing bells on his feet. Now enter the servants laden with goat meat, bread and figs. A simple meal, but plenty.

Sir John hands Khar a wooden bowl slopped with broth, which she sets to the ground. She has her eye on that bowl of figs. They are green and purple and fresh. Without thinking, Khar tugs on Sir John's sleeve. He looks down at her fiercely, she having interrupted him during a conversation with the Count of Such-and-Such.

"What is it, boy?" he growls.

Khar turns up a most innocent expression. "Fig," she says.

"What's that?"

"Fig, ples."

"Fig? Did you say, fig? Ho, William!" he calls across the table, "My boy said 'fig'!"

"Quoth he!" William calls back.

Sir John pats Khar on the head, ruffling her thick hair. Reaching to the bowl, Sir John selects a large fig and drops it in his squire's lap. Khar never hated him more.

She takes the fig and rolls it around in her hand, mouth watering for taste beyond goat soup. Yet, instead of eating it, Khar closes her fingers around the fruit and squeezes, juice dripping down her wrist.

—-

Late that night, Khar lies in the corner of a large drafty room. She had constructed a bed of hay to set her blanket on and was looked at enviously by the other squires and servants. Everyone is asleep now. Khar closes her eyes; she can hear the wind in all these rooms. She thinks of Hagia Sophia, of vast space beneath the domes, elephantine candelabras hung sixty yards above, pigeons settling on the face of St. Peter.

"Joanna," says Khar.

Then, she falls asleep.


	4. VI

VI.

A fortnight of rest had worked miracles on Edward's army. It afforded precious time to wash bedding and clothes; time to mend boots and saddles; time to eat and drink with leisure; time to tell stories; time to visit the disreputable port-side houses. Khar even managed to acquire two golden hours a day far from her duties. This time she used to ride Achilles, Sir John's purebred stallion, down the coast or to explore the city.

To be honest, Khar finds Acre quite beautiful. From its tall outer battlements,to its green marshlands, to its crowded caravansaries where you can buy honey-roasted nuts by the handful and listen to an old Greek woman sing folktales. Turn any corner of Acre's serpentine streets and find a full horizon of blue water. Khan even likes the barracks where their ranks are housed. It is dry and warm, if not a little cramped.

Today, however, Khar had not managed to escape the stables. Last week, Achilles had come in from pasture with a puncture wound to his back left hoof. The irony was not lost on Khar, who used to listen to Perun as he read from the _The Iliad_. He would translate to her the wrath of Achilles. No less heroic, Khar took up Achilles hoof and drained the wound of repulsive green pus. She found that a length of wood had embedded in the enamel. It was too far in to extract, so she meditated on ways to draw out the splinter. At dawn, Khar would walk the width of Acre inland to collect medicinal herbs and flowers, then hightail it back to the stable to boil bandages, make poultices and tinctures.

In fact, Khar had just deposited this morning's cuttings into a pot of boiling water when the far stable door swings open. Sunlight momentarily blinds her and she cannot see who enters. It is unusual to be disturbed at this hour. Khar stands and pats Achilles on his broad hind-quarter, then exits the stall.

"Hello?" calls a sweet girl's voice.

Khar paces quietly down the aisle and finds none other than Princess Joanna of Acre standing solemnly in a shaft of sunlight. She had not seen the girl since that victory banquet in Montfort castle. That is not to say that Joanna had left her thoughts. Often, Khar thought of the small golden girl with shining green eyes. She wondered about the things that kept a princess busy during a war campaign.

"Oh!" starts Joanna, finally noticing Khar at the far end of the aisle. "My goodness, you're like a ghost!"

Khar does not speak. Her command of English had grown steadily and she understood the gist of most conversations. But, she had yet to speak the language, fearful that no one would understand her thick accent. Besides, she had no one to talk to anyway.

Joanna timidly advances toward Khar as one would a spooked animal. "I am Joanna of Acre. What is your name, Squire?"

Khar hesitates, taking a few steps back.

"Don't be shy, no one will trouble you for speaking to me."

Finally, Joanna is within reach, and Khar can see with better detail the girl's smooth creamy skin, her mouth like a small pink rosebud, her eyes sparkling like dew-ridden moss. The girl extends a small white hand toward Khar and smiles.

"I won't hurt you," promises Joanna, "Please, tell me your name."

"Khar," comes the unbidden reply.

Joanna's expression lightens, "Ah, the Mongol Prince!".

Khar nods, ashamed for this moniker.

"But you must miss your family terribly!"

Khan feels a sharp ache at the sincerity in Joanna's voice. Not a soul had dropped one tear of sympathy for her orphanage. Lowering her eyes so that the princess will not see the emotion in them, Khar nods.

"Oh, I am sorry, Khar." Joanna reaches out and squeezes one of the squire's calloused hands.

"Dank you," says the shy, blue-eyed boy.

Joanna studies this Mongol prince unabashedly, tracing the line of his sharp jaw to a small perfect ear. Ebony hair he keeps knotted atop his head like those far-eastern warriors wear theirs, which Joanna had only seen in the pictures from her father's book on the Orient. He stands well above her petite frame, thin but lean and strong. She watches as he nervously fidgets with his cuff; his hands are large and tanned, fingers tapered and elegant, but sliced red or scuffed brown or scarred white. She bet, in another lifetime, he would be a musician. Casually, Joanna trails her vision back up to Khar's face. Those eyes startle her. The smolder, intensely blue, as if from the hottest part of flame. How beautiful they are. How, beneath thick dark lashes, unlike a boy's they are.

"I watch you riding every day," says Joanna.

For the first time, Khar smiles bashfully.

Joanna echoes the smile. "It's true, I can see you from my rooms out on the white sands, racing blue waves. Sometimes I swear you'll ride that horse straight into the sun."

"I like Achilles," says Khar, stringing together her first English sentence, "he is fast horse." Then, it occurs to her that she has been neglecting Achilles' treatment. Waving Joanna to the stall, she sets down crosslegged by the pot and stirs the herbs around with a stick. The water seems to have cooled. Khar reaches into a nearby pouch and surfaces with her fingers gently closed into a fist.

"What are you doing?" asks Joanna, in wonder.

Khar opens her palm and reveals the crushed petals of the calendula flower. Sap bleeds into the grooves of Khar's skin, staining it orange.

"They're so pretty!" Joanna exclaims, "Even crushed. Why did you crush them, Khar?"

The squire points to Achilles' rear leg. "Hoof wound," she explains, "This flower medicine. Flower eat disease. Herbs eat pain."

Understanding now, Joanna asks if she can help. Khar smiles and pops the fistful of petals into her mouth. As Khar chews, Joanna begins to giggle. Then, the strange boy spits out a mouthful of orange goo into the pot.

"You're mad!" she cries, laughing so hard tears sting her eyes.

Khar begins to laugh too, lips ringed with orange sap.

Boldly, Joanna wipes her fingers across Khar's mouth, still giggling incessantly. From her sleeve, she draws a starched white handkerchief and dabs again at his full lips, again remarking how strange a feature they are on a boy. Her laughter fades.

"Are you really a boy?" she asks.

Khar stops laughing too. She knows her eyes are famous for betrayal; she quickly averts them. So desperate is she to tell Joanna the truth. Yes, I am a girl! I was born a daughter and a sister. I am a girl, soon to be a woman. But, I cut my hair and all my people died.

"I am squire," says Khar, simply.

There is a quiet moment between them until Joanna sighs. "Then you are the most beautiful boy," she says.

Khar cannot look at her. No, Joanna of Acre, it is you who is beautiful.

Through the next hour, Joanna helps Khar re-pack Achilles' hoof with a new poultice and dress the wound in fresh bandages.

"For pain," says Khar, massaging the horse's broad neck to induce him to swallow a rosemary tincture. She, having carefully studied the wound, determined that the piece of lodged wood should be loose enough for her to remove it tomorrow.

"Can I help you tomorrow?" asks Joanna.

"Yes, please."

"If I do," the princess hedges, "will you teach me to ride like you do?"

"You do not ride?" wonders Khar, sure that part of a royal upbringing is learning how to ride a horse, even for girls.

"Well, yes. But, they've taught me to ride like a lady, side-saddle."

"Side-saddle?"

"It means with both legs on one side."

Khar is shocked. That is no way to ride a horse. In fact, it is dangerous!

"Don't look so shocked, Khar!" Joanna swats her friend on the arm.

"Yes, I teach you," says Khar, shaking her head, "English very silly with horses."

"Compared to your Mongol horsemen, they must be. I'm sure you could shoot an arrow straight through your enemy's heart at a full gallop."

Khar knits her brow, not really understanding.

"How about this, Prince Khar," teases Joanna, "you teach me to ride and I give you lessons in English."

"Teach me English?" repeats Khar.

Joanna nods.

"Yes, dank you," she says, cheeks aching from such a wide smile.

And so, over the next year, Khar and Joanna gallop over white sands and quote poetry to the sea.


End file.
